


A Matter of Time

by laireshi



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, captain america: civil war - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Past Sexual Abuse, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:10:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6862441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We need more time, sir,” Tony says, begs, because Steve’s life depends on it. His pride doesn’t matter. He'll do whatever it takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Comicsohwhyohwhy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comicsohwhyohwhy/gifts).
  * Inspired by ["We need more time."](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/197272) by Taras1234. 



> Comicsohwhyohwhy also beta'ed it -- thank you! I blame you for everything.
> 
> The art which inspired it is SFW and really pretty.
> 
> Read the warnings. This is not happy.

“We need more time, sir,” Tony says, _begs_ , because _Steve’s life depends on it_. His pride doesn’t matter.

Ross turns back, looks at him, and something in his eyes makes Tony shiver.

“You really think you deserve that?” he asks, walking back to Tony.

Tony has seen another man approach him like that before.

“I can’t do it in twelve hours,” he says. “It’s Captain America. He’s good. Orders to shoot to kill won’t make you find him quicker, so really— _give me more time_.” Tony swallows. “Sir.”

Ross’s eyes fixate on Tony’s throat, over where he’d opened one button after the fight with Barnes just to be able to breathe. He can’t breathe now.

 _God please no_.

Ross makes the final step, and puts his hand on Tony’s arm.

 _Steve_ , Tony tells himself. _They’ll kill him otherwise_.

It takes all of his willpower not to shrug Ross’s hand off, not to push him away. Ross gives him an appraising look, and Tony feels almost naked in his suit, desperately wishes he had the armour to protect him instead.

Except he’d willingly take it off, too, and Ross looks like he knows it.

“It’s no big deal for you, right, Stark,” Ross says, almost sweetly. “We’ve all seen the footage.”

Tony remains silent. Ross is right, everyone thinks Tony’s a slut anyway, he shouldn’t care—he wants to crawl out of his own body already. He should have been better. Then he wouldn’t have to . . .

Ross slides his hand down Tony’s chest, carelessly opens his shirt. The buttons fly, and Tony bites on his lower lip, sharp.

“What’s the matter, Stark, don’t feel like joining in?”

Tony tilts his head and flashes him a smile. “Just letting you set the pacing,” he says, and then he opens the remaining buttons himself, makes himself look inviting.

He feels sick.

Ross tuts. His hand wanders over Tony’s chest, exactly where the arc reactor used to be, and Tony can’t help but tense. Just because the reactor isn’t there doesn’t mean Tony doesn’t remember another man leaning over him, breathing into his ear as he removed it and left Tony to die.

Tony swallows. This is nothing like Obie, he tells himself. This is necessary. This is his choice, to buy Steve more time. He’s in control here.

He opens his mouth readily when Ross bends down to kiss him, digs the fingers on his right hand into his thigh to stop himself from opening the hidden repulsor.

 _Haven’t you heard that whores don’t kiss_ , he wants to ask and doesn’t and kisses back instead.

He wants this.

He makes himself put his hands on Ross’s chest, _carefully_ push his suit jacket off—Ross would probably declare him a traitor alongside Steve if he wrinkled it.

He opens Ross’s belt, puts his hand in his trousers, and Ross leans against him for a second, and then takes a step back, _finally_ taking his lips away from Tony’s. His pupils are wide already. Tony wants to look away and doesn’t.

He slides to his knees without prompting— _he wants this he wants this this is his choice he wants this—_ and pulls Ross’s trousers down. 

He feels sick with himself and doesn’t understand why, this is nothing, it’s okay, he’ll fix everything, it’s not like this is a high price to pay—it’s not like he deserves anything else, really. He’s a futurist, he should’ve been prepared.

He touches Ross’s cock through his underwear first, just for a moment—he’ll never be able to follow through if he makes it longer, and it should be so easy, sex is easy and he’s good at it, he likes it, and he blinks furiously because he feels like crying. He’s fine, this is fine..

Ross gets harder under his touch, and he’s starting to pant, so Tony pulls down his boxers and tells himself it’s arousal and not revulsion coiling in his gut.

Tony opens his mouth, but before he can do anything, Ross grabs him by his hair— _it hurts, so what, man up, Stark—_ and fucks into his mouth. 

Tony gags, and he can’t breathe and _he doesn’t—does—want it_ and then Ross pushes him away, and Tony lands on his left arm and hisses. For a split second, he hopes that’s it—but no, he needs the time.

“It doesn’t seem like you want this,” Ross comments, and a wave of visceral terror washes over Tony. 

He wants to take it and run away—but no. He can do better. He has to do better. To save his friends, to save Steve, because he wants to, because he likes it and is good at it and _it’s his choice_. 

“I can do better” he pants, and there’s a million things he could say, starting with _no—_ he can’t say this—something about Russian assassins spoiling his technique, a joke about being out of practice—and he adds, “I want to, sir.”

Ross looks at him, and deep down Tony knows he looks ridiculous with his trousers and boxers at his feet, his cock standing out, but the only thing he feels is terror.

 _He can’t say no_.

He kneels again, and now his left arm hurts too, but it doesn’t matter. Ross puts his hands in Tony’s hair again. It’s okay. It is.

Tony puts his hand on Ross’s hip, and the other on his cock, and this time he makes himself relax as he leans in and opens his mouth.

Ross smells like sweat and doesn’t taste better, and none of this matters, because Tony wants this.

He licks over the side of Ross’s cock a few times, and then carefully takes him in, still relaxed, because this is okay, no reason to tense.

He can’t do it.

He has to.

He moves his head up and down, and uses his tongue, and then Ross pushes his hand off and Tony panics, because _he needs to do it_.

Seconds later, Ross brings him in again by his hair, and Tony tries to keep his balance. It seems like Ross doesn’t want him to do more than kneel there and take it, and he thrusts into Tony’s mouth again and again, his breathing coming fast above Tony.

A part of Tony is relieved. He just has to react. 

He just can’t think about blasting the repulsor through Ross’s heart.

He could’ve refused, so it’s his fault, and he shouldn’t complain now. _It’s okay_ , he repeats in his mind over and over.

Tony’s jaw is starting to hurt, and his throat, and god, he won’t be able to speak normally, but that’s fine, it’s all fine, he’ll save Steve and they’ll talk and this time maybe Steve will listen—as long as there isn’t any sniper sanctioned to take a shot at Captain America’s head.

Ross comes down his throat, and Tony chokes, makes himself swallow, reminds himself to smile. He waits a few moments and redresses Ross, makes sure he looks presentable.

It could be worse, he tells himself.

“There’s something you’re good at after all,” Ross says when Tony’s done.

Tony snaps his mouth shut. He feels empty.

“I’ll see you in the meeting room in ten minutes,” Ross says.

Tony nods and hopes he looks appropriately grateful. 

He closes the door to Ross’s office behind him and then all but stumbles into the nearest bathroom, barely remembers to lock the door before he’s throwing up. He remains leant over the toilet until all he can do is dry-heave and then he forces himself to stand up. He doesn’t have time to feel sorry for himself—nothing to feel sorry about—he needs to be presentable in the meeting room in a few minutes. _Thank God_ Barnes beat him up so he can explain the state of his suit.

He looks into the mirror, his reflection staring back at him—he smashes it with his bare hand and for one beat of the heart he almost enjoys the sight of blood on broken glass.

Then reality kicks back in.

 _Fuck_.

There’d been chaos in the whole building, right, no one will think twice of it. Tony went hand to hand with a brainwashed assassin, it’s normal his hand is bleeding.

Everything is normal, nothing happened, it’s all good.

He washes his hand, splashes water on his face, finally washes his mouth. It still feels like he’ll never get rid of the taste.

_Nothing’s wrong._

He downs a few swallows of water, wishes it was something stronger. He immediately wants to vomit again, and only just manages to keep it down.

He has to go on, it was worth it, he’ll have time now.

He dries his face and his hands, buttons up his shirt as high as he can—just under his heart, the arc reactor scar visible to everyone, _fucking perfect_.

He takes a few breaths. He’s okay. He is.

He focuses on the pain in his hand instead of his jaw.

“Give me seventy-two hours,” he says back in the meeting room, his voice rasping.

“Thirty six,” Ross says, and walks out.

Tony stares into space. “Thank you, sir,” he says in an empty voice.

It’s better than nothing and it has to be enough and Tony’s doing the right thing here.

It takes him too long to realise Nat’s asked a question, her hand on his arm, and he fights the moment of blind panic at the touch. She wouldn’t hurt him. (That’s only Tony’s job.)

His left arm is numb. He could say—

She’d be disgusted if she knew. Steve would never look at him again, if he found out.

“I’m all right,” Tony lets out. It’s not a lie, he tells himself, and he’s doing what has to be done, but he’s fine, never been better.

He has a job to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I just want to repeat that despite everything Tony tells himself in this fic, this is very much non-consensual.


End file.
